


Temptation

by Wolf_dog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angels, Angels and Devils, Angst, Devil, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Suicidal thoughts/tendencies, Temporary blind John, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:59:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_dog/pseuds/Wolf_dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an Angel, and Sherlock Holmes is a Devil. Their love has always been forbidden, but they didn't care, they planned on Falling together, but when John wakes up human, alone and blind, what will happen to that love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

They’d always known it was going to end badly. It wasn’t something they could prevent. An Angel and a Devil. It just wasn’t possible. They’d had their fun, and now they were paying for it. Perhaps John more than Sherlock. Now he was Fallen. His once brilliant white wings now as black as the blackest Hell. And, he couldn’t _see_. Blind. Forever. He was no longer immortal. He was shamed, and would never be able to see Sherlock again. He doubted Sherlock would even want to be near him, not after this. He supposed he should feel lucky that he still had his wings at all, but he didn’t. He didn’t like them anymore. He had seen their colour before his eye sight was taken. He _knew_ what they looked like, what they represented. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had lost Sherlock, but now he would never be able to see. He would never know if he could trust anyone, as he used to.

John had been Made on the fall of Rome. He’d seen so much, learnt so much. He’d experienced things no other Angel had. But no more. He would never _see_ anything again. He hated it. Wished he was dead. He would be better off dead. He had tried multiple times, in fact. Tried to kill himself. But, objects he could use – anything that was even potentially dangers – seemed to just _disappear_. And he knew he had them. As soon as he went out to buy more, they would suddenly appear again, exactly in the spot he kept them, but he just … _couldn’t_ use them. As if he was physically unable to do it. It just didn’t make any sense. It was as if something else – or, someone – was influencing him. During his time as an Angel, he had influenced people. To stop them from doing drastic things he could prevent. He just didn’t know if that was it, or if it was, _who_ was influencing him. He had a feeling, but he hoped he wasn’t right. Because, if it was, he would be damn furious.

Couldn’t he just die in peace? This was worse than any Hell. This was the life of a mortal. Shunned by all and unable to die because someone didn’t want him to.


	2. Chapter One

The air smelt … clean. Sanitised. There was a certain hush over where he was lying, eyes closed as he gathered his senses. It really wouldn’t matter if his eyes were open anyway, but he preferred them closed. This way, people wouldn’t know, and he wouldn’t be _pitied._ The constant beeping in the background was the final puzzle piece. He knew where he was. In a hospital. He could hear his heartbeat, he could hear the constant rhythm. But, if his heart was still beating, that meant … Groaning, he scrubbed at his face. Not a-bloody-gain! He was still alive. So that meant his “accidental walk” off the bridge hadn’t worked. He froze as something soft in his hand brushed against his face. What was that? Pulling his hands back, he gently felt over the object. It was soft, and it had many soft bristles coming off a stalk. A leaf? No, it was far too soft… A feather. Oh. But, it couldn’t be one of his, because then it wouldn’t be in his hand. As far as he knew, no-one in this hospital knew he was blind yet. It was too large to be that of any bird, and too streamlined to be that of an Angel’s…

No. It couldn’t be. Trailing his hand over the feather, a slight scowl tugged at his lips. He heard a nurse walk in, her high heels almost grating on his ear drums, and stop beside him. He listened as she checked the machines. Then, he opened his eyes and turned his head to glare at her, shoving the feather in her direction. “What colour is this?” he demanded.

He heard her stutter for a moment, before regaining herself. “Can’t you see for yourself?” She asked briskly as he she turned.

John’s free arm shot out and he grabbed her arm, forcing her to face him. “No, I can’t _see_ it for myself! I’m _blind_ ,” he growled. “Now, tell me! What colour is it?”

She was silent for a few moments, and John’s impatience grew. If it was what he thought it was, it had a distinct colour.

“It’s a deep black, with a brown tinge around the edges,” she said finally, before tugging her arm out of John’s grasp.

John’s scowl deepened. He knew _exactly_ who this feather came from, and he didn’t like it. At all. Despite his anger, he was slightly soothed by the feather. He brought it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. It still smelt the same, and, despite himself, a smile curled at his lips. Then, he shoved it away from his nose, angry with himself for caving so easily, but the smell still lingered, and he could feel the soft bristles against his nose.

“Couldn’t you have just let me die?” he asked, sighing. He knew the nurse was no longer in the room (thank God, she smelt so strongly of perfume it assaulted his nose, and her shoes seriously annoyed John they were just too loud), so it was safe to talk aloud. Brushing his fingers along the soft, large feather, he could imagine it perfectly in his mind. A slight rustling in the air had him turning his head, even though he couldn’t see anything – he wouldn’t even if he wasn’t blind. Unless he wanted John to see him. That’s what being a mortal meant. John turned his head away and forced himself to let go of the soft feather. He could hear as it touched the ground softly. “You had your chance to apologise,” he said sharply, turning his head away. “It’s too late now. But I’m sure you already know that.” His voice turned bitter on the last sentence.

When there was no response, only a soft sigh which could have passed as air conditioning if it had been on, and had it not been winter. So, he _was_ here after all. John let out a breath. He’d had a suspicion, but now he had proof. “After what you did, don’t you _dare_ ask this of me,” John warned, his voice hard even though he knew that he wouldn’t listen. He never had, so why start now? Well, at least he could be satisfied that he had warned him.

John shut his eyes and studiously ignored the sad presence he could _feel_ watching him. It wasn’t fair. After what he had done to John, he dared to stop him from this? He felt resentment and hurt well up in him. Another soft sigh broke the silence over the room, and John heard a slight rustle of feathers – which he ignored, even though a pang shot through him at the well-remembered wings – and something soft brushed against his forehead, and he jolted, eyes opening on instinct and he blinked furiously as the image of the man he still loved, bending over him, eyes closed as he pressed a light kiss to John’s forehead. John’s hands shook, and the image slowly faded to black once more. “Don’t.” John’s whisper was hoarse and shaky, more a plea than anything else.

Something soft was slipped into his hand, and he cautiously felt it. It was the feather. His hand tightened slightly around the soft bristles, but he didn’t release it this time. If he wanted John to have it, then fine. Even if he didn’t want to admit it (not even to himself) the feel of the soft feather soothed some of his worries. Perhaps this half-life wouldn’t be so bad after all. Besides, it seemed he had his own Guardian Devil. The thought brought a slight smile to his face as, exhausted, he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

John knew he was being cranky. He knew he’d pissed off most of the hospital staff. But this was just ridiculous. He needed to get _out_ of here! He knew from experience that he was allowed to be discharged by now. But, the nurses seemed intent on making him suffer. A stupid move to a patient that was deemed ‘suicidal’. He knew that if his Devil was here right now, he’d probably be complaining that he was bored. He _wasn’t_ here, he thought firmly, shoving the thought from his mind. _He_ didn’t deserve the amount of time John spent thinking of him. Sighing, John stood out of the bed himself. Fine. He didn’t _need_ nurses to take care of him. Grabbing his cane, he felt his body, feeling the patient clothes, and decided he needed a change of clothes if he wanted to be able to sign out. Luckily, there was a bag of his clothes that Mike (another Fallen) had dropped off for him. Feeling for the zip, he reached inside and pulled out a shirt. Then, he pulled out his pants and trousers. He paused there, listening intently for sounds of _anyone_. Glad when there was none, he pulled off his patient gown and pulled on his clothes instead. It felt immensely good to be wearing his own clothes once more. Sighing with relief, he ran his fingers through his hair, and turned back to the bed with a sudden surge of panic. The feather! Running his hands carefully over the bed, he found the soft feather easily, so in contrast to the scratchy bed sheets. Bringing it up to his nose, he smiled. Its scent still hadn’t faded, even though it had been days since he had found it in his hand. John _knew_ that he had left his feather with John for a reason, but John just didn’t know what reason. The feather calmed him at the same time that it made him angry.

John hadn’t had another visit, or felt _his_ (John never said, or even thought, _his_ name since _it_ had happened – it just hurt way too much) presence since that day either. It was both a relief and hurtful. Perhaps he’d decided John wasn’t worth the effort anymore…

Shaking off the depressing thoughts (he certainly didn’t need any more of _those_ ), John flattened his hair, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made his way out the door, using his cane to feel for objects on the ground that might trip him up. He had thought about getting a guide dog, but had immediately decided that it would be unfair on the dog. Sighing, John made his way to the elevator, feeling for the ‘down’ button and pressing it. He heard the ding as the doors opened, and he stepped inside, immediately noticing with relief that it was empty. Good.

He waited slight impatience as the lift finally came to his floor and stepped out, feeling the brightness and airiness that confirmed that this was the reception. Making his way over to the desk on it, he tapped on the bench softly. “I’m here to sign out,” he told the receptionist politely.

He heard the shuffle of papers, and then the feel of them being pushed onto the bench in front of him, and the distinctive clatter of a pen. Picking up the pen, he twirled it for a moment, wondering how he was going to do this, and felt a gentle touch covering his hand. He stiffened, wondering who this person was, before he relaxed as he realised it who it was, and allowed the light touch to guide him. It filled out the time box, and then his name, and drifted his hand over for him to do his signature for himself. Perhaps the woman hadn’t noticed he was blind, and that was why she didn’t find it strange as he put the pen down and smiled at her before turning to leave, using his cane. So, he was still here, then. Had John just gotten used to him being there, or had he just arrived?

Deciding it was the latter (he hoped that was it, because then that meant John was becoming immune – _human_ \- to the feel of ethereal beings), he strode out the door. He took a moment to readjust, to try and figure out where he was, before turning to the left and walking off, studiously ignoring the presence he could feel following at his side. John didn’t want him here, even as he clutched the feather in his pocket, and he would make sure he knew that.


	3. Chapter Two

_He’s dreaming, isn’t it? He has to be. He has to be dreaming, because he can_ see _. Turning to look around on the spot, he noticed that he was in some kind of forest. Well, he assumed so seeing as he was surrounded by trees. Walking along, he frowned slightly, he almost felt like he knew this place. Was he in a memory, perhaps? No, that couldn’t be right – he could control his actions. But, he continued on anyway, feeling like he was being gently guided towards somewhere. Soon, he came to a clearing, and looked around. His eyes widened and he took a step back. He_ did _know this place! And he didn’t necessarily want to be here, if…_

_“John.” That one, simple word froze him in his tracks. He wanted to turn; he wanted to see if it really was who he thought it was._

_His mind whirled as he tried to decide whether it was better to just try and run._

_“Please don’t leave me,” the soft voice melted all of John’s desire to flee._

_Taking a deep breath, still hesitant, John slowly turned, wings fluttering in nervous anticipation, heart thudding hard in his chest and loudly in his ears. He still wasn’t 100% sure that he wanted to see him._

_His breath caught for a few moments as he took in the tall figure, pure-black-tinted-with-dark-brown-edged wings slowly folding against the lean back. His piercing grey/blue eyes burned into John, and his dark, curly hair flopped in front of his face. His skin was just as pale as John remembered. “Why have you brought me here?” John demanded. This was the place they used to meet… He pushed the thoughts firmly out of his head._

_He completely ignored John’s question. “You’re trying to kill yourself,” he stated, his eyes seeming to burn brighter and draw John in._

_“And you’re stopping me!” John shot back, bristling._

_He looked away from John, a scowl on his lips. “I can’t let you die,” his voice was soft, almost vulnerable, and he still wasn’t looking at John, but the honesty in his tone made John believe it was the truth, but he hardened his heart._

_“And yet you were willing to let me Fall alone!” John growled, almost shouting, barely containing himself._

_John watched with slight vicious satisfaction at the shudder that rippled through the Devil's tall body. “I’m sorry,” his small voice drifted across to John, and John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath._

_He started, eyes flying open as soft, long hands cupped his face. He lost himself for a moment in the familiar feeling, before jerking backwards, and out of his grasp. “Don’t,” he snarled, wings fluttering angrily and blue eyes flashing._

_After what he had done, he had no right to do that. Or to inflict this kind of torture on John. “I know why you’re doing this, and it isn’t going to work,” he told him, spinning around and starting to stalk away from the clearing._

_He didn’t know how he thought he was going to escape the dream, but he would try his best._

_“You won’t say my name,” his voice was soft, almost inaudible, and full of a hurt that made John’s heart tug as he stopped in his tracks, back still to him, and wings shivering with the amount of emotion he was feeling._

_“You don’t deserve it,” John said coldly, ignoring how his heart cried out for John to apologise, and then forgive him. But he couldn’t do that. Not so easily. He had hurt John badly, and he wouldn’t let that go._

_When silence was the only response he got, he shook his head sadly and kept on walking. It hurt even more that he hadn’t even tried to gain John’s forgiveness._

_“I’m sorry,” the soft whispered words seemed to wreathe around John as he closed his eyes and willed himself into consciousness._  

* * *

John woke with tears dripping down his cheeks. He scrubbed them away furiously, angry at himself for getting so worked up over a dream. It was just a dream, he told himself firmly, blinking his eyes – for a moment forgetting he was blind thanks to the vividness of his dream -, but he knew it wasn’t just a dream. He knew both Devils and Angels possessed the power to walk in other’s dreams, he just hadn’t thought that his Devil would be so selfish, or cruel.

He sighed to himself. He hadn’t thought that name in the whole 11 months since he had Fallen. It just hurt, way too much. He’d been betrayed, and John would never forget that. And there was a high probability that he would never forgive, either. He didn’t know the time, so he listened intently. The traffic below was fast, with only small gaps between the cars. Early morning, then.

Sighing once again, John sat upright, scrubbing his face free of any trace of tears, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and chucked the covers off of him. Reaching impeccably for his cane, by the bedside – exactly where he’d left it -, and stood, leaning on it for a few moments. After his dream and being able to _see_ , he resented his blindness as much as he had when he had first Fallen.

He berated himself for being so weak. Being weak was what had gotten him into the situation in the first place. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret (even now, when hurt and anger burned strongly though him) the time he had spent with the Devil. He didn’t regret Falling, but he _did_ regret Falling _alone._ They had both known they were going to Fall. But, it hurt all the more because they had _planned_ to Fall together. He wouldn’t have minded so much if they had gone with the plan.

He shoved the thoughts from his mind. That was in the _past_ and it should stay that way! Scrubbing his hands over his face once more, the motion calming him slightly, and used his cane to go to his draws. His draws were neatly folded with  clothes. Colour didn’t matter to him, so he just picked the first garments his hands touched. Slowly and methodically, he stripped and then put on his fresh clothes.

He was well set up in the human world – after all, it had been a _year_ since he had Fallen. Why was he only coming to John now? Most likely because of his increasingly dangerous and thorough attempts to kill himself. Sighing, John resigned himself to the fact that he just couldn’t stop thinking about _him_.

John paused in the act of tugging on his jumper as a sudden thought occurred to him. Perhaps… Perhaps he could move. The (his) Devil couldn’t possibly watch him all the time – even Devils got bored and had to go cause mischief. In fact, this Devil got a lot more boredom than all the other Devils, so he would be sure to only be keeping a loose eye on John, just to make sure he didn’t try and commit suicide today. John didn’t plan on it. It was too soon, and the hospital would be sure to start treating him as a suicide patient and decide to keep him there. No, today he would try to find a good place to move to.


	4. Chapter Three

OK, so _that_ had actually had been an accident. John had enough of his wits about him to find the irony in his situation. The one time he had actually _not_ tried to get himself killed, and he gets hit by a car. Could fate be any crueller? Stupid idiot had driven through a red light as John had been trying to cross the road. If John could actually _see_ he might have been able to dodge (and, also, damn these silent motors!) the damn thing. And so here he was, lying in the middle of the road, winded, trying desperately to try and get his breath back. And he’d just gotten out of the hospital too! Sighing, he tried to sit up, and immediately groaned. At least some cracked ribs, but the car seemed to have just nicked him and sent him flying. It was odd, because he had thought he’d felt the full brunt of the front of the car, but his injuries didn’t seem to support that theory.

Blowing out a breath, John felt hands gently helping him upright, a low, worried voice murmuring in his ear, asking if he was alright. “I’m fine!” he snapped, even though he could hardly stand up, and nausea was threatening to overwhelm him.

But John wasn’t one to accept the help of others easily, especially since he had Fallen. The hands continued helping him up, gently, and John was too out of it to even know if he knew the owner of the hands or not. John struggled, mentally cursing his blindness for the second time that day.

“John, calm down. It’s Greg. I’ve come to help, Sherlock-” the man – Greg – told him, trying to reassure him in a low voice, well out of the range of the normal humans, but it just succeeded in making John struggle harder.

“Don’t say him name!” John spat, cutting him off, and standing up, grabbing his cane as he did so, and shoved Greg away from him.

He could feel both the confusion and the kind understanding coming off of the man. “Look, John,” Greg’s voice was soft, and meant to be soothing. “Let’s get off the road, and then we can talk properly. You’re gathering quiet the crowd.”

John _knew_ they were gathering a crowd! Even though he was blind, he could hear a lot better than Greg could! “Who ever said anything about talking?! If it’s going to be about _him_ then I don’t want to go talk!” John snarled, bracing his weight on his cane to save his bruised ribs and back the pain of bearing his full weight. He knew however, that he didn’t have much of a choice. Greg was also a Devil, and he could follow John literally forever until the now-mortal man give in.

Greg took a firm hold of his elbow and began to guide him away from where he had been lying on the road and away from the crowd. “I know where I’m going!” John snapped, tugging his elbow out of Greg’s grip and striding ahead, ignoring the dizziness that made his head whirl.

“I never said you didn’t,” Greg muttered, a touch of annoyance in his tone making John smirk.

By the route Greg took them, John could tell that they were heading to a park. While he appreciated that they would have privacy, he still burned with resentment at having to talk about this – about _him_ \- at all.

They walked in silence, and John could tell by the slight change in the atmosphere that they were at the park. They didn’t sit at a bench, just kept walking.

“He still cares, you know,” Greg said finally, breaking the silence.

John bristled with resentment. “It’s been a _year_ , Greg. If he still cared, he would have come before this, and you know it!” John shot back, stumbling a little as he cane dipped into a crevice in the path, causing him to curse under his breath, scowling, and carried on, ignoring the hand he knew Greg had immediately put out to grab steady him.

John heard Greg heave a big sigh. “He’s scared,” Greg said softly.

John snorted in disbelief. “He doesn’t feel _fear_. He doesn’t feel anything at all!” John said, bitterness seeping into his tone, but he made no attempt to hide it.

“He’s afraid of losing you for good!”

“Then he should have come with me!” John shouted, and stopped in the middle of the path, spinning to turn on Greg. He knew people found it unnerving when he could locate where a person’s face was exactly, and he used that now to his advantage as Greg stopped and turned to face him. “He had a _choice_. We had a _plan_. If he cared at all, he could have followed! I know it, you know it. The only thing _he_ cares about it himself! So don’t go trying to _bullshit_ me into believing that he cares. He faced the test, and he failed. As far as I am concerned, he is as good as _dead_!” He knew he was shouting, he knew his face was red with anger, he knew that his breath was coming out in short pants. But he just didn’t _care_.

“We’re done here. Tell him to go haunt somebody else,” he growled after a moment of Greg’s shocked silence.

He spun around, aching and sore from more than just his accident with the car. It felt as if his heart had been ripped open, torn apart piece by piece and left to get trodden on. He hadn’t expressed so much emotion in over a year. He took a deep breath to try to futilely calm himself, straightened his shoulders, and carried on walking.

“I promised him I’d take care of you,” Greg called after him, though John could tell he wasn’t following him.

“Since when do Devils keep their promises? Just leave me alone,” John shot back bitterly, not pausing, just kept on walking.

 “No matter what you think, John, Sherlock will always care about you. He always has, and he always will,” Greg called after him.

John froze at the mention of _his_ name. He hadn’t heard that name – or even thought it – in nearly a year. No, for _exactly_ a year. He spun around, rage and bitter hurt pulsing through him, but he could tell that Greg was already gone. John’s face twisted up into a bitter smile. Good. Perhaps now he would be left alone for good.

                       

* * *

 

All through the rest of the day, whenever he had a moment of peace to think to himself, Greg’s words haunted him. _He still cares… No matter what you say… Sherlock cares._ It had been exactly a year since he had Fallen. If _he_ cared as Greg said he did, why didn’t he Fall with John? That was the one problem John couldn’t wrap his head around. John cared _so much_ about him – he’d even go so far as to say he loved the brilliantly infuriating Devil -, but it just didn’t seem like his Devil felt the same.

John retreated to his bed earlier than normal, his mind exhausting him more than any physical activities ever could. He curled up, his hand reaching for the feather he kept hidden under his pillow. As much as he hated to admit it, the scent comforted him, but only slightly. He gently stroked the fine bristles, closing his eyes as he pictured in his mind what it would look like. He knew what it looked like; he had spent hours memorising each fine feather, each bristle. The dark brown at the edges of the top, which darkened into a deep black at the middle and down the rest of the feather. He knew it so well, it was almost painful. It was almost like he could _see_ again. But he knew he would never see again. Not the brilliance of the sunset or sunrise, nor the clouds, nor the rain, nor the perfect Devil he loved so much it was painful. He both hated his Devil and loved him. He loved him for his brilliance, his gentleness when he was with John (though the former Angel knew he was capable of things so evil and cruel). He hated him for letting John Fall alone, for waiting a whole year before contacting him again. For sending another Devil to look after him.

John didn’t sleep that night, instead wrapped himself in his thoughts and allowed himself just one night to grieve for his loss (even though it had been so long), and not wanting to risk an encounter with _him._ With _Sherlock_.


	5. Chapter Four

John frowned at the object in his hand. He knew there were no Devils watching him in this moment – for the first time in five days. He had gotten even better at sensing Devils. He didn’t understand the sudden obsession in keeping him alive – after all, he had been trying for more than a year now – and he tried hard to squash the little voice in his that told John that maybe he did care after all.

He turned the needle slowly around in his hand, debating. He knew that the amount of the drug he had chosen would be enough to kill himself quickly and without a chance of anyone getting here in time to stop him. And yet…

_He cares about you… He always has and always will…_

He just couldn’t get the words out of his head. He would have damned Greg in his head – but he was already a Devil so there really would be no point. He shook his head, determined, and pressed the point of the needle against the inside of his elbow, squeezing his eyes shut.

With a growl of frustration, John threw the needle away from him, not caring as it smashed on the tiled floor of his bathroom. He couldn’t do it! And there was no outside influence (he had become good at recognising that, too), so all he had to blame was himself. He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees, taking deep breaths.

He was so exhausted. He hadn’t slept in five days (not counting the half hour nap he had had two days ago). He hadn’t wanted to risk meeting _him_ again in his dreams. But, now he could feel himself drifting off, and he didn’t have the willpower to stop it.

Before he was completely unconscious, he felt a gentle touch wrap around him – one he hadn’t felt in more than a year, but recognised instantly. But he was just too tired. He felt himself being lifted, and turned into the warmth he could feel radiating from the person carrying him. A familiar scent drifted into his nose, and he felt soft wings wrap around him as well.

“I’m still mad at you,” John mumbled, yawning.

“Hush,” the deep voice soothed him in a low rumble by his ear. “Go to sleep, my dear, you can be mad at me when you are fully rested.”

                        John couldn’t form a response fast enough, because sleep over took him, and he welcomed it for the first time in five days.

 

When John woke, he was confused. For a few moments, he couldn’t remember how he had gotten in his bed. And what was he cuddling to his chest? Frowning as he sat up, he ran a hand through his short hair and felt the soft, warm object on his chest. Thankfully, it wasn’t alive, so he could rule out an animal of any sort. It had sleeves… A shirt? No, shirts were never this soft, or woolly. Oh… A jumper. He spread it out on his lap as he stretched his legs out in front of him and rested on the headboard of his bed. It was most likely the softest jumper he had ever felt. It had indented stripes all through the material. Bringing it up to his nose, John inhaled deeply and caught the scent of his Devil. Of course. Who else would bring him a jumper?

He always had worried about John getting sick or uncomfortable. Smiling at the memories, he ran his fingers gently over the fabric as he debated on whether or not he should wear it. Wearing it might make his Devil think that John was starting to forgive him (which he most definitely was _not_ ), but not wearing it would mean getting pestered more. Wearing the jumper seemed the better option, John decided finally. Frowning for a moment, he wondered how long he had been asleep, and reached over to his bedside table, and carefully felt for his clock (one of those annoying ones for the blind that tells the time if you press a certain button) and pressed the button. In an annoyingly loud, obnoxious voice, the clock told him, “Eight thirty-five pm.”

John had slept all day! It was a good thing that he didn’t have work –government paid for his funds thanks to his blindness. For a moment, he just softly stroked the soft material of the jumper, all his bitterness washing away for just a moment. And, in that single moment, he saw the jumper. It was cream coloured, and had it had the stripes and indents that he had felt. Then, he gasped and felt anger. Was Sherlock the one allowing him to see it? He didn’t need nor want his pity! And, once more, he was blind.

He felt bitterness sweep through him once more. Every time he got to see – even if it was only for a moment – it made him resent his blindness all the more. Little glimpses couldn’t compare to the real thing. They just couldn’t. He realised his hands had clenched into fists, the material of the jumper bunched up within, and smoothed out the fabric, realising he didn’t want to wreck or crumple it.

Sighing, he slipped the jumper over his head, smoothing down the material as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and searched for his cane. He might as well do something with the evening he had left. He might go out for once. Take a walk. Smiling (something that he rarely did) as his hand bumped into the edge of his cane – his Devil must have gone and fetched it for him, because John was positive that he had left it in the bathroom. He grasped it firmly and used it to help himself up.

As John moved around his room to collect his things (his phone – not that anyone ever called him -, his wallet, his keys and his annoying blind-person’s watch) he paused. He was being watched. A _gain_. He was sort of getting used to the feeling by now, but that didn’t necessarily mean he had to like it. For once, he couldn’t tell who it was that was watching him. Frowning, he found himself twirling his cane around with slight unease. He could feel the authority in the air, so it wasn’t Lestrade, and Sherlock was always careful to hide his presence, so it wasn’t him either. Allowing himself to keep still for another moment, he decided that whoever was watching him didn’t mean him any harm (and he doubted _his_ Devil would let anyone harm him – especially now that he was blind) and also decided to ignore it. He wouldn’t let anyone ruin his night out.

By this time of night, people would be in their homes, or eating in restaurants or going to the movies and such. John avoided such places, not wanting to get pitying stares or to get pushed around – really, he just wanted to avoid people as much as possible. Taking the well-memorised route out of his bedroom, down the hall and down the set of stairs to the front door of his rented flat he locked the door behind him, before shoving the key deep in his pocket and turning to face the street.


	6. Chapter Five

The crisp night air felt wonderful in his lungs, and John was still ignoring the authoritative presence still following him. It was annoying, but it wasn’t exactly something he could change. He couldn’t just turn around and he demand he go away – because, since when did Devils do what they’re told?

He was in a nice, quiet park and finally had some peace and quiet. Well, except from the Devil following him – he had worked out that it was definitely supernatural, and definitely _not_ an Angel, so the only thing that fit was a Devil. He just didn’t know _who_. Not Sherlock (he would recognise his presence anywhere) and not Lestrade. John was confused as to who would want to follow him. He hadn’t thought Sherlock trusted – or even liked – anyone to let them near John. Of course, that was quite possibly a very selfish thought, but he brushed it away.

As John stopped in the middle of the park, wondering how far he had gone and where exactly he was, he felt a sudden burst of worried anger in the air around him, so strong that it made him stumble with the suddenness of it, only his cane saving him from falling to the ground. Lestrade was here. Interesting… That meant Sherlock _wasn’t_ watching him all the time.

“What are you doing here?!” Lestrade demanded, and John kept on walking, knowing that they would both follow.

“I’m here to _protect_ ,” the man sneered the word distastefully, “John, of course.”

With a sudden halting motion, John remembered with sudden clarity who the voice belonged to. Mycroft. Sherlock’s older brother. He never had particularly liked John, so he was surprised that he was here. Sherlock didn’t even _like_ Mycroft, so there was no way that he would have let Mycroft be here if he had known.

“You’re not meant to be here,” Lestrade said angrily his flapping wings gusting over John and ruffling his hair, making him scowl with annoyance. Couldn’t they fight elsewhere?

“Who’s going to stop me?” Mycroft said coldly. “ _He_ certainly doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Sherlock’s not going to like this,” Greg groaned. “You shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ John.”

“I am _right here_ , you know. And I _can_ hear you,” John commented drily, not turning, but instead kept walking, eager to get away from them.

Both Devils froze – he could tell because of the lack of the sound of wings beating the air. The blissful silence only lasted for a few moments, and then they returned to arguing, though in a much quieter tone.

“Look, Sherlock’s going to be _really_ pissed if he finds you here. You know he will. So, why are you _really_ here?” Greg asked in a low tone.

“That is none of your business, _Greg_ ,” Mycroft said in a dangerous, cold tone.

John rolled his eyes. Seriously, couldn’t they just leave him alone?! He whirled around. “Look, can’t you two _ladies_ go fight elsewhere?” John snapped, before quickening his pace.

“I’m here to protect you, John,” both Greg and Mycroft said at the same time, making John scowl.

“John’s right,” Sherlock’s deep voice came from above John, and he bit back his groan of irritation, and kept on walking. “Why don’t you both run along now? And Lestrade, I’ll be talking to you later,” Sherlock said, his voice growing sharp. He completely ignored his brother, just as John was ignoring Sherlock.

Did they _all_ have to turn up? John was having such a good day, too… Well, it was now thoroughly ruined.

“You didn’t really think I’d let my brother stay near you if I’d known, do you?” Sherlock’s deep voice sounded both amused and slightly hurt.

“I don’t know anymore,” John said quietly. He didn’t turn or look, just kept his head up and kept on walking.

He felt a gust of winds as Sherlock’s wings flapped in obvious agitation. “It’s better this way John, trust me,” Sherlock said finally, an undercurrent of regret in his tone.

He finally reached his limit, and snapped, whirling around on Sherlock, face set in an angry scowl. “Oh, so it’s _better_ that I’m blind, _better_ that I’m a mortal Fallen, _better_ that now I’m unhappy, and _better_ that you can just float around and watch as I get older instead of joining me?!” John demanded.

“It’s better that you’re _safe_ ,” Sherlock said quietly, and the John thought he imagined a hint of regret in his tone.

John snorted, shaking his head and clenching his fists, before he kept on walking, sorrow flooding through him. They could have been happy.

                       

When John finally returned from his tense walk – Sherlock had thankfully stayed silent for the rest of it, but John had been fully aware of his presence at all times – and his mood had thoroughly taken a turn for the worse. Though, he didn’t take off the jumper. It felt too comfy and soft and warm for that. Since he couldn’t light a fire by himself, he had to rely on his clothes and the electric heating – which he couldn’t, by the life of him, work out. So, he stuck with layering on clothes to keep out the cold London chill.

John’s stomach rumbled loudly, insistently telling him that he needed to eat. He considered ignoring it for a moment, before he sighed and turned to find his way to the kitchen.

His fridge was stocked with packed meals that he just needed to heat up in the microwave. They didn’t taste that great, but they were food. He pulled a face as he opened his fridge, and the multiple smells assaulted him. Sighing, he grabbed one at random and shut the fridge behind him as he made his way over to the microwave and stuck it inside, punching the numbers he had memorised by heart.

He listened to the dull buzz of the microwave with distaste. He wondered what he meant – that it was better that John was ‘safe’. He frowned, deep in thought. Had John been in danger? He hadn’t thought so. So what had Sherlock meant? Sherlock wasn’t the kind of person to just make stuff up to get out of something he’d done.

He was jolted from his thoughts as the microwave went off. Shaking his head, he went over and took it out – ignoring the sting the hotness sent to his fingertips as he got burnt – and took off the lid and grabbed a fork, enjoying the steam that lifted into his face. He found out that the meal he was eating was rice and salmon this time, and he gave a small smile. It was one of his favourites – though he was sure that it would task a lot better fresh.

After his dinner and he’d chucked out the packet and washed his fork, he took a nice, hot, long shower, ruffling out his pure-black wings and letting them get soaked before carefully washing them. He was glad he still had his wings – even if they weren’t the brilliant white of before – but he hadn’t touched them except to wash them to make sure they wouldn’t get sick.

Then, John changed into his warm pj’s, taking the jumper with him to cuddle the soft wool while he slept. Curled up in his bed with the jumper to his chest, just as John was about to slip into sleep, he got the feeling he was being watched, and opened his eyes blearily. He was way too tired to be anything but sleepy, and he gave a sleepy smile as he saw Sherlock’s face, soft with emotion, next to his on the pillow. Sherlock’s eyes widened with realisation, and John gave a wide yawn before closing his eyes and allowing sleep to take him.


	7. Chapter Six

_John was dreaming again. As he looked around the familiar forest, he felt only irritation and not anger. This time, Sherlock didn’t wait for John to find his way to him. No, in fact, as soon as John had entered the dream and realised where he was again, Sherlock came flying towards him (literally) his strong, agile wings flattening the undergrowth as he landed gracefully in front of John. His blue/grey eyes were shining brightly with excitement, and his mop of back curls was even unruly than usual thanks to his flight. He didn’t stay still once he had landed, instead coming right up to John and grasping his shoulders, shaking him lightly, a large grin on his face, the smug expression very familiar._

_John had only ever seen Sherlock this excited a few times, and he knew it would be almost pointless to capture his attention until he had gotten whatever he wanted to brag about off of his chest, but, that didn’t stop John from trying._

_“Couldn’t this have waited?” John griped, though he was secretly enjoying the time he was spending with his Devil._

_Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, and started pacing in front of John, hands folded together under his nose in his usual ‘prayer’ position. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to face John with a triumphant grin. “I know why you’re blind!” he declared, clearing waiting for John’s reaction._

_John went stiff. This wasn’t what he wanted to talk about, but he knew from experience Sherlock would just keep on talking over him if he tried to distract him. He blinked, and then tilted his head to the side. “I’m blind because I Fell,” John said slowly, as though he was explaining something particularly easy to a child._

_Sherlock’s expression fell in disappointment. “Dull,” he murmured in agitation, resuming his pacing._

_Sherlock shook his head and continued pacing, and finally drew his hands down from his face so John would be able to hear him clearly._

_“No. Yes, you are Fallen, but that isn’t the reason you are blind – far from it, in fact. No, the reason for that is far, far more interesting. I’ve noticed that there’s a pattern to when you can and can’t see. Your moments of being able to see have something to do with me. First, at the hospital. When I kissed your forehead, you could see me. Then, when I left that jumper for you. Your face went soft and unguarded, and you could see it. And lastly, just a few hours ago when you were falling asleep – you sensed me and opened your eyes,” Sherlock explained, his tone slightly hurried in his excitement, and he stopped pacing to face John, eyes bright._

_“You can see when you aren’t angry at me,” he whispered softly, his whole face going soft, his lips curling up in the corners slightly._

_John just stared at him for a few moments, processing that fact and letting it sink in. Then, he blinked and scowled. “Is it any wonder I’m mad at you?” he demanded, his metaphorical hackles rising. He turned away, fully intent to storm his way out of this damned dream._

_He heard Sherlock grumble under his breath, but ignored him. A second later, he was gripped from behind and roughly turned, and pressed against Sherlock’s chest as the Devil rose into the air._

_“Let me go!” John demanded with a scowl, struggling._

_“No!” Sherlock barked, making John still in surprise as he heard true anger in the Devil’s tone for the first time. “You’re not going anywhere until we work this out.”_

_John recovered himself after a moment and glared up at Sherlock’s (handsome) face. He decided that remaining silent would be the best way to go._

_“You blame me for not Falling with you. But, you don’t know what actually happened! I couldn’t Fall with you. There was another Devil – Moriarty – who was jealous of you. He wanted the power that Angels have, and he planned on forcing it out of you! I couldn’t – can’t – let him do that to you. I had to stay as a Devil to protect you. It only took me a month to …. destroy … him. He can’t harm you anymore,” Sherlock ranted, his face tightening in anger at the mention of Moriarty as he steadily climbed higher and higher into the sky._

_John listened intently to what Sherlock said, his struggling stopped as he searching the Devil’s face for any sign that he was lying. But, he couldn’t find any. Sherlock was telling the truth. “Then why did it take you so long to find me? I waited for_ six months _for you to return. I would have welcomed you if you’d explained! But-,”  John was cut off by Sherlock, as he looked down at John, eyes blazing._

 _“I couldn’t find you! I didn’t know where you’d Fallen to! Do you know how long it takes to search the_ whole Earth _for someone?” Sherlock demanded._

_“You’ve never had any trouble finding me before!” John shot back._

_“I couldn’t because you_ hated _me!” Sherlock said, his face anguished._

_John had to look away from his intense stare then, focussing his gaze on Sherlock’s chest. His hands curled into Sherlock’s familiar woollen coat, and he took deep breaths as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He had wanted so badly for Sherlock to find him. When he had first Fallen and found himself alone, he had been hurt and confused. As time went on, with no sign of Sherlock coming to find him, that hurt and confusion turned into anger, and he resigned himself to the fact that he would remain forever blind and alone without the only being he could ever love. He wanted so desperately to believe Sherlock, to go back to what they had, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to. Sherlock had hurt him so deeply._

_He heard Sherlock sigh softly, and then felt them slowly beginning to descend once more towards the ground._

_“You don’t have to forgive me. I know I’ve hurt you, but I couldn’t let anyone harm you. Not even yourself. Once I found you, it was a shock to know that you’d been trying to kill yourself. I know you don’t want me to stop you, but I can’t allow you to kill yourself. But, if you just stop being_ angry _at me, you’ll be able to see again. I promise. If you don’t want me to be around, I’ll leave. But I won’t stop protecting you. As long as you’re mortal, I’ll protect you and keep you safe – even if it’s not what you want,” Sherlock told him softly in a sad tone, and John was vaguely aware of his feet touching the ground._

_“Go think about it, my dear, and tell me your answer when you’re ready. I’ll wait forever if I have to,” Sherlock whispered, and then John felt the soft press of lips against his forehead._

_His head shot up (he didn’t want to leave just yet!) but he couldn’t form the words fast enough, because everything faded into blackness, and the last thing John saw before waking up was Sherlock’s gentle, loving face, smiling at him sadly._

 

* * *

 

John woke up with tears dripping down his face again, but this time he did nothing to stop them as he shot upright into a sitting position, the woollen jumper clutched tightly between his two fists, and Sherlock’s name on his lips. Breathing heavily, he felt a sense of disorientation, and curled his knees to his chest, bending over them and clutching almost desperately at the jumper. He knew his tears would be dripping onto the soft material, but, in this moment, he just didn’t care.

He loved Sherlock _so much_ and it just wasn’t fair! And know he knew that Sherlock still loved him too, and loved him enough to wait for him, even if John didn’t love him. It hurt so much, knowing that he could have what he always wanted, but unsure if he could trust Sherlock again. If Sherlock was a Fallen too, it wouldn’t have been so much of a big deal.

He stayed like that for a while, just crying out all his anger and hurt and frustration.

He didn’t notice that his eyes were still tightly closed, and that, if he opened his eyes, he would be able to see Sherlock by his bed, an anguished expression on his face, not daring to touch John just yet.


	8. Chapter Seven

John took a whole week to try and figure out what he wanted. Sherlock hadn’t been near him – just as he’d said. Lestrade mostly kept guard over him, seeming more determined to not let anything happen to John. Now that he’d heard Sherlock’s side of the story, he found it increasingly hard to even _think_ of being mad at the Devil. It was obvious still loved him – and he’d always known that Sherlock’s possessive side would mean that he would do whatever it took to keep John safe. He just hadn’t expected Sherlock to take it to such extremes like this.

Then it took another week for him to finally let go of the remains of his anger for the Devil. As another week passed, he found himself forgiving Sherlock – letting go of every bad emotion he felt for Sherlock.

When he woke up on the first day of the fourth week, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. For, when he opened his eyes, he could see dark shapes. When he waved his hands in front of his eyes, he could see the dark shape of it. He watched, mesmerised, as he stretched his fingers. He was starting to see again!

The day after that, the darkness started turning lighter into shades of black and grey. And the next day he could see fuzzy colours. On the fourth day, there was less fuzziness as things started getting definite outlines. On the fifth day, he could see properly, like everyone else!

He searched for someone, _anyone_ to share this with, but he couldn’t find them. No Sherlock (though, that was to be expected), no Lestrade, not even Mycroft! It was both frustrating and infuriating. He waited all day, and then all of the next day before he decided to take matters into his own hands.

John curled up in his bed, wrapped tightly around the jumper, which had the feather gently placed in between the woolly material, and closed his eyes tightly, willing (more like forcing) himself into the dream.

 

* * *

 

_John took a moment to steady himself as he looked around the extremely familiar forest. No Sherlock in sight. Practically itching with anticipation and eagerness, John unfurled his wings and took flight for the first time in more than a year. He relished the feel of his wings stretching fully with each flap he took, zooming in the air, above the trees, tasting and seeing the sky and feeling a large grin cross his face as he scanned through the trees for the sight of his Devil._

_He didn’t know how long he was searching for, just that he wasn’t going to give up until he found Sherlock. Finally, after an indeterminable about of time, he spotted him. Sherlock was lying on his stomach, resting his head on his folded arms and had his beautiful wings fully stretched out to enjoy the sunshine._

_Grinning, John folded in his wings and dove, the wind whistling in his ears and stinging his eyes, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock, afraid that if he even blinked, that Sherlock would disappear._

_“Mycroft, I already told you to leave me alone,” Sherlock’s voice drawled coldly as he got in hearing range._

_John didn’t respond, just grinned. He flared his wings at the last moment, buffeting Sherlock’s body with air, and landed gracefully with his knees on either side of Sherlock’s hips, and leant forward so that his hands were on either side of Sherlock’s curly head, but he made sure that he stayed away from Sherlock’s gorgeous wings. Sherlock gave a low growl of annoyance, and then stiffened as he lifted his head and obviously caught sight of John’s tan hands._

_“John?” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly soft and hesitant._

_John had wanted to tell Sherlock in real life, but this would have to do. “I can_ see _!” John declared proudly._

_Sherlock carefully retracted his wings flat against his back, and rolled over to face John, his eyes unusually serious as he stared up at John’s smiling face._

_“I mean, not just here,” he said excitedly, lifting a hand to gesture it around wildly, “but in actual life. I wanted to tell you there, but I couldn’t find you, and Lestrade was being annoying, so I decided that_ I _would come to_ you! _” John beamed down at Sherlock._

 _Seeing Sherlock’s still hesitant face, John rolled his eyes. “I’m not mad at you, Sherlock. I mean, that is the whole reason I can see again – you were the one who told me that, remember? – and I don’t_ want _to be mad at you anymore. Surely, you know I never truly hated you. Resented the fact that I was alone and blind, yes, but I didn’t hate you. I don’t want to spend the rest of my mortal life alone. I want to spend it with_ you _, Sherlock. My brilliant Devil,” John whispered the last sentence softly, his tenderness seeping into his tone as he smiled down at Sherlock._

_There was silence for a moment as Sherlock absorbed that, and then John blinked, and the dream was fading into blackness. No! He wasn’t finished!!_

* * *

 

John woke up in his bed, sitting upright and clenching his fists into the material of his jumper. “No!” he groaned angrily. He hadn’t wanted to wake up just yet! What had happened?

“Shh,” a deep voice soothed him, and long arms wrapped around him, and there was a dip on the bed as Sherlock settled on the bed next to him.

John lifted his head up to look, and he let out a small sigh of relief at the familiar sight of _his_ Devil.

“I wanted to see for myself,” Sherlock explained himself, shifting John along the bed so the long-limbed Devil could comfortably rest against the headboard next to him.

John shifted, sliding his legs out under the cover and turning on his side to snuggle up to the warm body next to him. A long arm slipped around his waist and held him close.

“I wasn’t finished talking,” John complained after a moment, feeling immensely glad of the return of the feeling of being able to say whatever he wanted to Sherlock.

“Then, continue,” Sherlock said in amusement, and John looked up to see him smirking.

John took a deep breath, trying to regain his thought process from the dream, before continuing. “You’re _my_ Devil, and I’m never going to let _anything_ get between us again. I made you a promise, remember? _‘Together forever, no matter what_ ’,” he quoted softly, looking up at Sherlock.

“I remember,” Sherlock said softly, eyes closing for a moment. “ _’Come hell or high water, we will stay together’_ ,” Sherlock finished, making John beam as Sherlock looked down at him.

“I love you, Sherlock, my handsome Devil,” John murmured happily.

“And I you, my precious Fallen,” Sherlock murmured, bending down and pressing a tender kiss to John’s forehead. “Now, sleep. You need your rest.”

John gave a grumble for effect, then closed his eyes, one arm wrapping around Sherlock’s waist in return to make sure the Devil didn’t leave him while he slept, and slipped into blissful sleep.


	9. Epilogue

For the first time in over a year, John didn’t wake up alone. It was a nice feeling, and he enjoyed it immensely. He opened his eyes slowly, half afraid that this was all just a dream and that Sherlock wasn’t really here with him. Sherlock was there, sleeping peacefully, arms and wings wrapped tightly around John. It was so extremely rare to see Sherlock sleeping, and John really had no intent on waking him. As much as the Devil detested it, he _did_  need to sleep. John glanced up at the wings surrounding him with half-lidded eyes and a stifled yawn, before he blinked in shock. They were black. Pitch black, to be precise. How…? Looking back at Sherlock’s face, John found himself wide awake, and full of questions. But, he didn’t want to wake him either… Oh, well. He could make sure Sherlock slept properly later. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips gently to Sherlock’s, a gentle but insistent pressure. Sherlock stirred slightly, and his eyes fluttered open, glancing down at John before relaxing, a soft sigh of pleasure escaping him.

John pulled back slowly and smiled up at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back, his face soft. “I think that’s the best way I’ve ever been woken up,” Sherlock murmured softly, giving a wide yawn.

John chuckled softly. “I was going to let you sleep, but I have some questions,” John told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully. “Shoot.”

“Right, well. What happened to your wings?” he asked, reaching a hand up to lightly touch Sherlock’s wings.

Sherlock gave a shiver at the feel, and briefly glanced at them before a slow smile crept across his gorgeous face. “I Fell,” he whispered softly, eyes shining. “Now we can grow old together, just like you always wanted.”

John’s breath caught for a few moments, his hand stilling, before he beamed and leant forward, pressing their lips together once more, harder this time but heart-felt and brief. “I love you so much, Sherlock,” John murmured.

A secretive smile then crept across Sherlock’s lips. “I was counting on that,” he murmured, and lifted up their intertwined hands – both of their lefts.

Confused, John tore his gaze from Sherlock’s face, and to their hands, and he felt like his heart had stopped. There, shining brightly on their ring fingers, were two silver rings. Leaning closer, John saw an engraving. It read _‘Sherlock and John Holmes. Together forever.’_

John gave a soft laugh, feeling over joyed and extremely emotional. He found enough energy to look back up at Sherlock’s face and tease, “I see we won’t have a problem of whose going to take whose last name.”

Sherlock’s laugh was rumbly, and his eyes bright. “You sound better with my last name,” he told John, squeezing his and softly.

“You always were the possessive one,” John chuckled happily, leaning forward and kissing Sherlock softly.


End file.
